


what freezings have I felt

by makiyakinabe



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-24 06:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makiyakinabe/pseuds/makiyakinabe
Summary: How Nestor came to the attention of the Winter King, and what happened after.





	what freezings have I felt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonotadream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonotadream/gifts).



The first time Nestor of Kalokairi set foot on Iverian soil, he took in the dreary landscape with a cursory sweep of his hazel eyes, drew his new fur-lined woolen coat tight around himself, and sprang back into the carriage with a wordless sigh. As the carriage resumed its journey towards the Iverian capital of Gresle, he curled up on his seat, his slender hands tucked deep into his sleeves, and looked out the window with no small ennui.

The realm that had lain in the grasp of the Winter King from time immemorial was made up of grass and rock and tree. Were Euthalia, his ever-curious, ever dear sister here in his stead, she might have pressed her heart-shaped face right up against the frigid pane so as to examine the fields upon fields of grass through which the carriage moved at a plodding pace; to discover and exclaim at every boulder of rock as they gradually came into view; to stare intently at each of the trees that she saw as though she were trying to commit every one of them to memory, never mind that they were all one and the same. Nestor, despite being her spitting image—his short, curled hair aside—had no such inclinations. The sharp chill that Iver was well known for had settled into his skin as soon as he had opened the carriage door, and although he had long since returned to the carriage and closed the door shut behind him, the chill had yet to let up.

His impressions remained unfavorable as the carriage drew closer to Gresle. The houses that moved past his window were simple structures of wood, neither painted nor embellished, and with the drab, grey sky above set as a backdrop, they made for quite the gloomy sight.

When the carriage came to a stop at last, he stared at the house which he was to call home for the coming months, wrapped his arms firmly around himself, and wondered, for one fleeting moment, if Father might be persuaded to allow him to stay somewhere much closer to the Lenten border, where the Autumn Queen held more sway. Then he shook his head at himself. He _had_ made a promise, and a man was only as good as his word. Picking up his leather satchel, he opened the door and stepped down to brave the Iverian air.

A chilling wind rushed past his face just as he planted both his feet onto the ground, and it was all he could do to keep from shivering. "If you don't mind me asking, sir," he tried to say to the coachman, amid chattering teeth, "does the weather get any, er, less cold than this?"

"Fraid not, sir," came the blunt answer.

Nestor let out a sigh. The coachman was in short order thanked, paid for his services and sent on his way.

Once the carriage drove off, Nestor turned on his foot, squared his shoulders, and made for the house. He cursed aloud as another gust of wind blew past his face. "What a dispiriting place!" he muttered to himself, as he fumbled around in his satchel with fingers that had already begun to numb. Somewhere, among the handkerchief, the coin purse, the glass vial of oil, the box of matchsticks bought during his sojourn in Lenten, the miniature tins of dried flower Father had given him and the assortment of sweets Euthalia must have generously slipped in while he wasn't looking, ought to be the key he was looking for. "Freezing winds, cheerless little houses, a sunless sky hanging overhead—I don't think I shall ever understand why anyone would want to live in a land ruled over by a season as inhospitable as winter."

 

* * *

 

The chill began to fade as soon as the door was locked and bolted against the elements. Nestor's feet took him towards the fireplace without further ado, and when he at last managed to get a fire crackling merrily away on the logs, the pleasant warmth that gradually filled the air had him breathing a happy sigh of relief.

Despite being sorely tempted to do nothing for the rest of the day but sit on the hearth, his hands stretched before the fire, however, it was not long before he doused the flames and reluctantly moved over to the door with his satchel in hand. The furniture and surrounding walls were the color of the wood from which they were hewn, the linens a banal white and there was not a single decorative detail to be found anywhere. It did not take an aesthete to see that the space in which he was to live was barren to an oppressive degree, and to be honest, if he were to stay in such a miserable place for a moment longer he feared that he might go mad.

Moreover, the journey to Iver from Lenten had taken longer than expected, and the tell-tale rumble of his stomach reminded him that it had been forever since he last ate. No self-respecting Kalokairin would break bread all by themself, and he was no exception.

The tavern turned out to be rather difficult to find, and the strangers who might be so kind as to point him in its direction equally so. How many circles did he walk around Gresle with his arms wrapped around himself, trying to get his bearings, he could not say. The houses of Iver, like the trees from which they came, were all made from the same mold, and the more time he spent wandering to and fro, the more they all seemed to blur together in his mind. By the time someone took notice of the lost, bewildered look on his face as he paced close by the residence of the human King—a large house of stone that was instantly recognizable from a distance—deliberating whether to try his luck there, he had become so tired and starved that it was a wonder he was still standing upright. 

The people of Iver, he soon came to discover, were as forbidding in temperament as the weather itself. His guide, a man of few words and fewer expressions, led him to a house that seemed no different from the others he'd came across on his fruitless walk, met his profuse gratitude with a slight nod and strode away shortly after. The small number of men and women inside the tavern were equally distant, sitting all by themselves with plenty of space in between, and although several shot brief glances at him as he came through the door, their eyes flitted down to their tankards when he began to peer around uncertainly and did not look his way again.

This strange, cold land was so unlike anywhere else in the world that it was little wonder the former emissary to Iver, whose visit had lasted the longest of all his compatriots—one whole year—had returned to Kalokairi with wild, blood-shot eyes and a reluctance to set foot outside the elaborate house that had been gifted to him subsequent to his retirement. Nestor bit his lip. Try as he might to hold in check the worry that arose in his chest, the thought of living for months on end in the same house which had witnessed the former emissary's slow descent into frenzy unsettled him nonetheless.

It was then that a rasping voice came from behind him, asking, "Sir? Are you alright?", and with a start, he turned to find an Iverian man with a splendid fur cloak looking down at him in slight concern.

"Yes, yes, I'm quite fine, thank you," he said with an awkward laugh, feeling a flush creep into his face at being caught off-guard at so inopportune a time. He had a particular liking for men who were tall in stature, and while such a description was applicable to most men of this land, the man who stood before him was a rather fine specimen. "It is only that I have never been to Iver before, and, being unused to the way things are done hereabouts, I find myself feeling somewhat out of sorts."

A faint look of understanding crossed the man's face and before Nestor knew it, a cold, broad hand had fallen lightly on his shoulder and he was being gently directed to a table close to the fireplace. "I take it you are from the land of the Summer King," said the man, moving to take a seat across from him and gesturing at the taverner to bring over two tankards of ale. "Poor old Simon had looked just as lost when he first arrived."

"People call him Simon the Strange-Eyed, nowadays," he admitted, after a pause. The worry of meeting the same wretched fate that had befallen the other gnawed at him one again, and he could not help the shiver that ran through him.

The man, perhaps noticing his unease, spoke no more of the former emissary. "It is a long way from here to Pyrros's realm," he said instead. His striking grey eyes flitted for a moment to gaze off into the distance in thought, and in so doing allowed Nestor a chance to admire his pale, angular face and the way his fair, silken hair caught the firelight. "I had been there once upon a time. Alas! I was unable to accustom to the heat and I returned here all too quickly."

"Oh, that is such a shame," said Nestor, warming at once to the change of subject. The taverner strode over to their table, two tankards in hand, and he accepted his with a quick, bright smile of gratitude before continuing on. "Kalokairi is lovely—I admit I am rather partial to to my homeland, having lived there for as long as I can remember, but this I speak truly. The swelter can be difficult to endure at times, to be sure, but when the day draws to a close and the heat lets up, the coolness of the night air brings a most welcome reprieve. I do not mean to offend," he added quickly, as he belatedly realized his misstep, "I am sure that Iver is not without its charms. It is only that I, er, am unsure as to what sort of pleasure one might be derived from a place where the temperature drops so low that one feels sluggish and disinclined to set foot outside, even for the briefest of times."

The man waved the matter aside. "We of Iver prefer honesty over mere flattery. I would much rather hear you speak more of the summery land you call home than any further apology."

Nestor smiled up at the man from beneath his eyelashes and leant forward in his seat.

 

* * *

 

The man was named Aubin, and in the coming days they became fast friends. In Kalokairi Nestor had friends by the score, and would gladly call whoever he met a friend after merely exchanging a few words, but it was not until he came to Iver that he found a true friend in Aubin.

Not a day went by where they did not seek each other out for company and conversation. Nestor spoke freely of his family and—with rose-tinted words that stemmed as much from habit as they did from the longing Euthalia's letters bestirred—of Kalokairi itself, of its sunlit, sloping lands, foaming waves and its extravagant houses, each more extravagant than the last and all of them a great source of pride for whoever lived within. Aubin, listening intently, in turn introduced him to Iverian cuisine and the men and women of Gresle, all of whom knew one another despite their reserved nature and eventually counted his among them. It was Aubin, too, who introduced him to the snow, coaxing him out of the house when he would have rather remained curled up in bed. As they walked around Gresle, he could not help but stare in wonder at the fields, trees and houses, all of which laid buried under a generous coating of white that crumpled beneath his boots. This was a beauty that could be found nowhere else, and although the air was such a biting cold that it soon numbed his feet, for all his grumbles of discomfort he found in truth that he did not mind as much.

He often marveled at his good fortune to have made the acquaintance of Aubin on his first day in Iver. Upon hearing that his Father, a merchant who dealt with flower teas, wished to do business hereabouts, Aubin had introduced him to Fleury, the human King of Iver, and so delighted had His Majesty been with the rose and hibiscus teas that he had immediately ordered the delivery of ten full crates. Nestor was inspired to sell the dried flowers in tiny cloth bags after Aubin made an offhand remark about their fragrance, and soon they were all the rage not only in Iver, but also neighboring Lenten.

As the time passed his admiration for Aubin only grew, and so often did he write of his friend that Euthalia was quick to remark on the change that was wrought in him. In Kalokairi he had been easy with his affections, and would gladly take to bed whichever men returned his smiles and were nothing but pleasant to him. In Iver, he was content to walk alongside Aubin in companionable silence and much later, when the sun had fallen, lie in bed, take himself in hand and think of those piercing grey eyes, of those faintly upturned lips that he so admired.

So accustomed had he become to the minute mannerisms and expressions of Aubin, that it was plain to him that the other, too, saw him as something more of a friend. The people of Iver were slow to lay their heart bare, even to those they hold most dear, and where he once might have found such an attitude vexing he was content instead to wait, knowing that it would be well worth the while.

And so, when Aubin came knocking at the door one dark winter's night, the first thing Nestor noticed about him was the wild intensity of his eyes. It was a moment later that Nestor took in his snow-encrusted hair, the bluing pallor of his skin, and quickly pulled him inside.

Once the door had been swiftly shut and caution taken to ensure that it was locked and bolted tightly—there was no sense in letting any more of that horrid chill into his home, now, was there—he turned to Aubin. "If you please, sir," he said smoothly, even as his heart began to pound madly within his chest, "do allow me to get some warmth into you."

Aubin let himself be steered with a firm hand towards the fireplace. On the hearth, standing as close in front of the burning logs as was safely possible, was Nestor's most favored chair, and he spared no time sitting Aubin down in it. Alas, the fire seemed to do little to be of little comfort. There was still a wildness about Aubin's face as he tried to catch Nestor's eye.

"Apologies. I had not meant to call on you so late in the evening. It is only—"

Nestor knelt in front of Aubin, took hold of one of his frightfully pallid hands, and he fell silent mid-sentence. He did not speak again as Nestor applied himself to the task of bringing some warmth into the hand, rubbing the palm and the back of the hand with a gentle, steady pressure.

"You need not apologize to me, sir," said Nestor, twining their fingers together and running his thumb along the grooves between Aubin's knuckles. "Although," he added, looking up with an earnest expression, "I must admit I wish you had given me some notice prior. I have used up the last of the hibiscus earlier in the night, you see, and have nothing to offer you but water."

"I shall make a note of it," said Aubin faintly.

"I will hold you to that! You looked such a fright standing outside my door." Rising to his feet, Nestor caught Aubin's face in his hands and tilted it up. "Look at you," he said, his voice softeng as he gazed into those grey eyes he had so admired. "So cold, so pale. As though you were a ghost! I must say, if you were to slip through my fingers and vanish I would not be surprised." He took note of the flush that rose in Aubin's cheeks with no small pleasure, and smiling, leant forward.

Aubin's chilled lips parted right away at the touch of his own, and the kiss they shared was slow, lingering. When he drew back, letting his hands fall to his sides, however, it was to find Aubin staring up at him in sheer astonishment. Uncertainty gnawed at him, and, swallowing, he said quickly, "If I had overstepped my bounds—"

Aubin took him by the chin and kissed him, swallowing the rest of his words. Heat coiled in his stomach at the desperation with which Aubin's thawing lips moved against his own. and with a soft moan, he rushed forward, wasting no time in sitting down on Aubin's lap. Aubin drew him closer without hesitation, and he let out a shudder as firm, broad hands ran down his body to settle on his ass, holding him steady.

When Aubin, mistaking the shudder to be the result of contact with the snow-covered cloak, made as if to remove it, Nestor shook his head. "I have a bed that could use some warming up," he said by way of explanation, and smiled at the faint expression of astonishment on Aubin's face. Getting up, he made his way over and removed his clothes with practiced ease. His hand found the vial of oil he kept near the foot of the bed, and he bent over to reach it, in so doing giving Aubin an enticing view of his ass.

When Aubin sped over to the bed, it was to find him lying on top of the covers in a careless sprawl, nonchalantly working himself open with two oiled fingers. The sight of Aubin slowly undressing before him sent a heady rush of blood down to his already hardening cock. "Have you done this before?" he asked, licking his lips and staring unabashedly at Aubin's thick, glorious cock.

"I have, yes," said Aubin distractedly. His heated grey eyes were fixed on the two oiled fingers sliding once again into Nestor's ass. "It was long ago."

Nestor nodded, removed his fingers altogether, and wordlessly stretched out a hand.

Aubin did not need any further prompting. In the next moment he had gotten on the bed, and, taking hold of Nestor's ankles, lifted Nestor's legs up so as to rest them on his shoulders.

Nestor let out a gasp as Aubin entered and filled him in one smooth thrust. He let out another when Aubin, as though in apology for having caused discomfort, took his cock in hand and gave it a slow, measured stroke. "If you please, sir," he said, breathless. "I shan't last any longer if you were to carry on like this." But in spite of his entreaty his hips were angling upward, as though they had a will of their own, and the gratifying friction derived from the sensation of his cock rubbing against Aubin's hand had him shuddering in pleasure.

Even so, Aubin's hand did not withdraw as he began to move, thrusting into Nestor at an unhurried, measured pace, and it was not long before Nestor's seed was spilling into his palm. A look of fondness came onto his face as he gazed down at Nestor, who laid spent and breathing heavily before his eyes, and his lips slightly turned upward as he leant over. "You need not hold yourself in check for my sake," he said, his lips moving softly against Nestor's own. "We have all the time in the world."

If the wind howled loud outside the window as a snowstorm settled over Gresle, none of them noticed.

 

* * *

 

It was not long before Nestor came to the realization that Aubin was the Winter King. The more time he spent out of doors with Aubin, the more he took notice of how the winter chill never seemed to affect him, and when Aubin began to bring him frozen roses in the morning, one at a time, his suspicions were confirmed. 

Aubin looked so beside himself when the matter was raised during one of their long walks that Nestor was rather taken aback. "No, no, I do not mind," he said quickly. "Truly, sir, you may rest assured. Although, well, I would much prefer it if the weather became warmer every once in a while."

"I can think of other ways to warm you up," said Aubin, deadpan. Taking Nestor by the hand, he pressed a kiss to his fingers, then glanced up in inquiry.

Nestor made a show of hemming and hawing, looking down at his hand with furrowed brows as he turned the suggestion over in his mind. "There does not seem to be any improvement," he said in pretend disappointment, even as his fingers moved to twine with Aubin's own. "Have you anything else to suggest?"

Aubin let out a roar of laughter. "Why, of course," he said. "If you would allow me to show you—"

So saying, Aubin took Nestor home, pressed him against the door, and soon had him flushed and gasping.


End file.
